In March, the warm wind returned to Korea, carrying its annual promise of visual splendor. Around the cherry trees it curled and swirled, bidding them join the game of spring; open their blossoms to the world. The message, warmly given, was warmly received. For the cherry trees, too, had been anxious for winter to subside, that they might swell into full radiance. And as they did, dull, wintry countryside was transformed into optimistic impressionism. As if Monet had had his way with the dreary canvas, the mountains were soon adorned with smatterings of pastel effervescence.

That same warm wind swept in and through cities, encouraging the cherry buds to burst forth. The trees responded promptly, eager to replace the starkness of streets and sidewalks. Fluffy elegance prevailed in defiance of the city’s dense, angular massiveness. So great the contrast between cement-laden, rugged urbanity and these innumerable pink puffs of heaven, it seemed miraculous that such delicacies could survive. Yet there they hung in all their beauty; oases in this concrete desert; gently caressing appreciative eyes.

After their reign high on the branches of magnificence, they once again gave in to the wind’s bidding, and began to gracefully pirouette to the ground. It was during this dancing descent that one foreigner came into direct contact with them. En route to Kwanganli Beach,  I traversed one of Pusan's famous cherry blossom-viewing streets. There, blossom petals fluttered down in scores. Appearing so much like snowflakes, I half-expected them to melt in my hand. But they didn't. Rather, they remained, like a velvety glove.

On the streets near the curbs, drifts of fallen blooms resembled banks of snow, and when the wind blew as it so forcefully did that night, they were up and swirling in its gusty energy. A fluffy snowstorm it was, but hat and mitts were not the order of the day. That message, carried on the warm Korean wind, was warmly received by this snow-seeking Canadian.

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